


to seek fallen metal with winding hands

by anthropophobist



Category: Black Sails
Genre: A little bit of power dynamics, Anal Fingering, Bottom Silver, Brief mention of potential fisting, Crack, Early s2 setting, Established Relationship, Lost rings, M/M, Spit As Lube, it takes a while to get to the funny but I promise it's worth it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthropophobist/pseuds/anthropophobist
Summary: "You've got to be shitting me.""That's not funny."Born from an interesting conversation about Flint's rings during sex. Alternatively titled:the fellowshit of the ring,or:how the cock ring was invented.





	to seek fallen metal with winding hands

**Author's Note:**

> I love researching 18th century sailing ship speeds for 15 minutes just so I can maintain immersion and accuracy in a crackfic using 2 whole lines of text. Aside from semi-accurate sailing methods, there is nothing serious about this fic. I'm really sorry.  
> This could not have happened without [mar](http://piratetyrant.tumblr.com) and [paula](http://cptainflint.tumblr.com) and their invaluable input. I love u guys

"Last item!" Silver stomps. As do the men, many still snickering from Silver's taunts. "We're approximately one and a half day removed from landfall. Winds are blowing us East, speeds will likely remain steady at five knots overnight."

"Just five knots? I nearly get blown off my damn feet when I'm on deck takin' a piss, and you're telling me we's only going five knots?" Iomhar pipes up in a loud voice. "The captain forget how to sail already?" he remarks, followed by scattered laughter here and a hush there. Silver hesitates briefly while his eyes scan the hold, likely searching for the slandered captain. Flint remains unseen, and he watches as Silver then consults the piece of paper held in his hands. It's evident that Silver doesn't find a decent answer on it, but Flint can't say he's particularly worried about it. He must admit, he likes seeing the man squirm a little.

"The hull hasn't been careened in a while--" he begins, and Flint winces. Exactly what an already dissatisfied crew doesn't want to hear. As expected, the men immediately begin to protest. Silver stumbles just the slightest bit over his words as he struggles past the commotion to correct his error. "And- and the currents are less than ideal. But, no trouble, I'm sure the captain can manoeuvre her just right and lead us home in the fastest way possible."

Ever since he began his daily account of goings-on, Silver has received the brunt of the crew's dissatisfaction. He manages to put the crew into an amicable mood every time through ridicule, but it's never enough to distract the men entirely from the body of his reports. Flint has watched many of the man's accounts unfold into barely contained chaos, and he's seen Silver talk his way out of getting himself or Flint killed more than once. He has unofficially taken over the quartermaster's role of placating the men. Dufresne never has been very good at this part of the job, of appealing to the crew, but it seems to be where Silver's strongest. Thus Flint is satisfied with the roles allotted to both men, and sees no use in separating their functions for posterity.

He can only hope Silver doesn't feel the need to use his newfound position of power to make a move against him. He tells Flint he's in this for the gold, that he sees him as the most effective way to achieve his goals, and Flint feels a rush low in his belly when he recalls the full-body sensation of Silver saying those words, panting them heady against his jaw, body rocking from Flint's thrusts.

The men rise almost simultaneous then, unified in that way. Flint leans back further into the shadows as they move back to their stations, or towards the quarters for some rest. Silver looks around as he's left standing at the head of the mess hall, and now that they are the last remaining pair, he catches Flint's eye. Flint doesn't move from the dark, but he knows Silver can see when he lets a slow smirk spread on his lips. He can't help being impressed by Silver's achievements on this crew; frankly, he hadn't expected the man's methods to lead to anything but broken ribs and a kidney contusion. But here he is, of great service to Flint in more ways than one. And all without pissing blood once.

"You seem impressed, Captain," Silver says. Flint hums.

"I think you nearly started another mutiny, bringing up careening like that."

Silver laughs lightly at that, wild strands of his hair falling into his face when he ducks his head. "You didn't even see their faces. I think they were halfway ready to toss me out the nearest gunport," he says. Flint simply hums again.

"Good save. Although," he adds, "The currents are undeniably in our favor tonight."

Silver looks at him for a long moment, shaking his head. Flint knows what he's going to say next.

"Do you have to do this every time? Trust me, I know half the shit I say to those men isn't true."

Flint grins wide and perhaps the slightest bit predatory. He can sense how it makes the air shift, how Silver shifts, and he knows his intentions are clear to him. "Do you care to join me to my cabin, Mr. Silver?" he asks. Out of decorum, if nothing else.

Several minutes later, Silver is halfway undressed and leaning back against Flint's desk while Flint himself is on his knees, working the buttons on his breeches. The captain remains fully clothed, whereas Silver is but fully hard and undeniably impatient. He pulls Flint up by his leather coat, and makes to tug it off. Flint complies easily enough, then goes to his knees once more to push Silver's breeches down before he's even considered taking his shirt off. Silver allows him to get his mouth around his cock with a gasp, fingers dragging through Flint's auburn hair. He tightens his grip briefly, and it makes Flint choke on Silver's cock a bit. He tries not to let on what it does to him, to avoid giving Silver any measure of power in this situation. But Silver's brow is cocked when they make eye contact, and Flint begrudgingly crosses one more tiny secret off the long, long list.

"Captain," Silver pants, his hand releasing Flint's hair and moving down to gently pull him away by the jaw. "You need to be on deck at next bells, and I want your cock before you leave."

Flint grunts softly, ignoring his knees protesting as he rises. He leans in to graze an open mouth along Silver's without bothering to turn it into a decent kiss. Instead, he moves away and grabs his shirt by the collar, tugs it off in a halfway fluid motion. Silver looks relieved to see Flint undress, perhaps even quietly ecstatic. He places his hands low on Flint's hips and moves them inwards to get at Flint's buttons, but Flint pushes them off. Silver's impatience is starting to wear on his nerves, so he decides to take action. Or perhaps, he'll take the very opposite of it.

Watching Silver intently, he brings his hands together, thumb and forefinger blindly seeking the other hand's little finger. Slowly he begins to twist off the ring settled there. It comes off easily, and he leans into Silver's space, still watching him as he lets it clatter with a dull sound onto the papers scattered across his desk. He straightens again, moving just beyond Silver's reach, and removes the one on his ring finger next. He continues this process with the next ring, and the next, watching the way Silver is staring at him. It's clear from the look in his eye that he isn't amused by Flint's slow undressing, but is also all too aware that he has not cultivated his captain's respect enough to try anything in this moment. So he waits it out, cock still jutting up hard from the breeches around his thighs.

Flint grasps the ring from his left middle finger next. He twists it languidly, watching Silver's chest rise and fall. But the metal band won't budge in length; the second knuckle is swollen and hot, bruised beyond the scrapes and minor contusions across his hands that seem to have become a permanent nuisance there over the years. The ring is too tight to come off.

Silver notices this, and reaches behind him into one of the desk's drawers to retrieve a subtle, mostly empty vial of scented oil. He holds it out as though it is a peace offering of sorts. Or perhaps he's simply losing what little patience he has left. Flint decides not to muse on which of the two it could be, or why Silver knows he keeps the vial there. Rather, he takes the glass pin out and applies a few drops of tawny oil around the ring. The deep, warm smell of sandalwood immediately blooms up into the humid air of the cabin.

"So this is what I've been smelling on you all this time," Silver says. He tilts his head to kiss at a spot behind Flint's jaw, and Flint can't keep himself from sighing into it, even as he twists away to keep him from sucking a bruise there. Silver smiles against his earlobe, faint stubble scratching his skin like a cat's tongue. "Who knew the captain liked fancy perfumes."

"It's oil for my beard. To keep it from irritating." Flint keeps his voice even and breathes a steadying breath through his nose. "Though it doesn't hurt that it masks the stench of this crew."

"Are you going to use that on me?" asks Silver in a low voice, subtly trying to remind Flint what he's been asking for with a small pinch of teeth. But Flint can't help it. He laughs short and low, rumbling, not missing how Silver nearly startles.

"I found this oil in the cabin of a prize near Inagua almost a year ago. Rather a rare find. If you really think I'd waste it on your arse, you're even thicker than I thought," he says with little inflection.

Silver huffs a breath against his jaw, though Flint can't tell if it's laughter or indignance. He gets back to twisting the oiled ring off his finger, but it seems as though every attempt to pull it off only aggravates his knuckle further, and as much as he hates to admit it, he's beginning to grow impatient himself. Hungry to get his hands on Silver, who offers himself so freely when asked that Flint really should be more mindful of how often he does. He's flinching as he yanks on the ring when Silver pulls away and speaks.

"That ring isn't coming off, Captain."

"Give me a moment," Flint says, a little heated. "It's just swollen, I can get it off."

Silver laughs with something akin to disbelief in his features. "I'd rather you get me off." A steely glance from Flint has him drop the smile. "It's already been five minutes. Christ, Flint. No one asked you to punch the entire British Empire, just leave the damn ring on."

Flint grunts, pulls hard enough to make his knuckle pop, and gives in at last. He breathes in softly and lets the air trickle out of his slack mouth. Then he jerks his chin at Silver.

"Get out of those breeches and get on the cot."

Silver complies easily and without question, kicking his trousers off and reclining on the window seat, his legs open. His cock has softened a little; it now slumps against his abdomen, listing to the right. Flint comes to kneel between his legs. He brings his hand up to his own mouth and wets two of his fingers with his own spit, trying very hard not to let his face twist from the bitter taste of the oil. He looks up at Silver's face and presses a finger against his arse, rubbing slowly. He watches Silver's face intently, heedful of any discomfort that may show. But there is none, Silver's eyes are hooded, his face tilted up. Flint continues to rub Silver's rim with gentle pressure until he can feel him relax fully, before pushing his finger inside. Silver breathes in slow, hazy breaths as his cock jerks, hardening again.

For a man who seems for all intents and purposes incapable of silence, Silver's never noisy when they fuck. He moans and whimpers and pants, but all at a surprisingly controlled volume. Flint had been somewhat taken aback the first time; he'd been prepared to gag him should he have become too loud, but Silver had gasped and clenched around Flint's cock so sweetly and moaned so softly after. It was another side to him that Flint hadn't expected, but certainly enjoyed.

Flint begins to pump his finger slowly after a patient moment, not missing the low grunt Silver lets slip. He adds a second digit shortly after; perhaps earlier than either would like, but he knows better than to let the saliva dry on his fingers. Silver looks perfectly content, propped up halfway on one elbow, chest rising and falling steadily. His other hand is on his cock, stroking and squeezing slowly, keeping himself hard. Flint spreads his fingers inside of him, watching how Silver's mouth drops open a little in response, and pulls his hand back. He pushes himself up and forward, getting his mouth level with Silver's tanned clavicle, and licks across the jut of it. His hand returns, blindly seeking Silver's slick hole and pressing back in with a third digit.

He noses at Silver's throat, fingers pushing and pulling inside him like a quickened tide. Silver gasps delightfully sweet when he spreads his fingers and curls them just right. Flint twists his fingers as his hand retreats, then abruptly, he stills all movement. He stays his hand exactly as it is, but pulls his body away from Silver, who is now staring at him in breathless confusion.

"Why'd you stop?"

Flint hesitates. "Don't get mad," he tries. "My ring came off."

"Oh. Is it on the floor?"

"No," Flint says bitterly.

Silver's voice turns a little icy. "The sheets?"

"No," Flint says again, after a long pause.

Something shifts in Silver's eyes, a brief flash of heated strife that is immediately replaced by defeat. He props himself up slightly, neck straining to see Flint's left hand as he pulls it away from Silver's arse. The ring that was clamped around his middle finger is nowhere to be found.

"You've got to be shitting me."

"That's not funny."

A long moment of silence follows. Silver begins to cant his hips slowly, hoping to get a feel for the ring inside him. Something unpleasant surges in Flint's belly as he watches him shift and frown.

"Stop moving, you'll only get it lodged in deeper."

"That's not how the anus works."

Flint grimaces and wipes his fingers. "This isn't the time to joke, Silver," he says, exasperated but unable to keep the colour from creeping up his neck. "We need to get it out."

Silver's gaze fixes itself on nothing in particular while he focuses on feeling the ring, likely to no avail. A breeze whistles through a broken pane of glass behind Flint's desk. With some concern, Flint looks on as Silver wets two fingers and slips them inside himself from behind, back arching and stretching the toned muscle of his abdomen. Flint's hands instinctively move towards one another, to fidget as he does when he's thinking or anxious. He lets a disappointed sigh slip when his fingers fail to find a ring to twist. Silver's frown deepens when he looks up.

"What is it?"

Flint shakes his head, but Silver's gaze has already dropped to his joined hands. His brow smooths. "Are you fucking kidding?" he says. "I have a ring stuck up my arse, but you're upset because you can't _fiddle_ with anything?"

"I never--"

"I think I'm in a worse predicament here, captain, and it's _your_ fault!"

Flint bristles. "You were the one who was so goddamned impatient, not me!" he says with a raised voice, momentarily forgetting about the dozen men on deck who are undoubtedly within hearing range. Silver pulls his fingers out, pointing one at the captain.

"You were the one who gave in; I was just fine waiting," he claims, as if either of them would believe it.

Flint's voice drops down into a growl. "Like hell you were."

The tension inside the cabin spreads like tobacco smoke, curling and clinging to whatever it can find. While Silver stares at him, alarmed by his tone, Flint sits back and ponders their predicament. As much as he'd like to, and as much as Silver seems to expect it given the look on his face, he isn't going to kill him. He wants his ring back first, and he feels very little for digging through a dead man's bowels.

"Need my fingers?" he asks. Silver huffs a breath.

"Just stick your cock in there, it'll fit perfectly 'round it."

Flint decides to ignore the insult, instead he simply comes up and coaxes Silver's legs apart. This would be easier with Silver on his stomach, but he doesn't want to risk the ring shifting any more than it has to. Christ, he suddenly realises, this really is happening. He really is about to search for his lost ring in the cook's rectum. Flint knew right from the start that fucking Silver was going to end badly for everyone, but even he is surprised by this outcome. Alas, he thinks, and pointedly resigns himself to the fact that this is his reality now. He slicks his fingers again with his spit.

Silver grunts in some discomfort when Flint doesn't go easy on the insert, but thankfully keeps whatever snide comments to himself. God, Flint normally loves this part. He likes seeing just how much he can take Silver apart with just his hands, how tight he always feels around him while he's trying to relax his muscles. How wound up he gets when Flint crooks his fingers just right. Right now, though, he takes no pleasure from pushing his fingers as deep as he can get them and practically stirring Silver's intestines. Silently, Flint prays for the ring to graze his fingertips.

It takes several excruciating minutes, but they have a stroke of luck; Flint feels the smooth, slicked shape of his ring against the very tip of his finger. Relief of an almost embarrassing magnitude washes over him.

"I've got it--"

Immediately, Silver jerks up from his lounging position, propping himself up to look at Flint. The movement makes him bend at the waist, which causes Flint to promptly lose whatever grip he could muster on the ring. Their stroke of luck appears a short one. A long moment of silence follows during which Silver barely seems to breathe, eyes locked onto Flint's. Flint's fingers remain inside him, motionless.

“I’m calling Howell.”

“You absolutely will not,” Silver hisses, eyes blazing.

Flint has half a mind to call the doctor into the cabin anyway, but he's succinctly aware that there isn't a theory in the Bahamas that would explain this situation without exposing the truth. So he rejects the idea and turns his gaze on Silver to steel.

"Then lay back down. And _don't move_."

They spend several more minutes with Silver spread out on the cot, head tipped back on his raised arm, and hips lifted somewhat off the mattress. But it's as if every attempt to reach the ring only serves to push it deeper. Silver's hole gives no resistance to Flint's probing fingers anymore, relaxed to such an extent. Underneath the frustration, Flint is a little impressed.

"Christ, I could fit my entire hand in there," he ponders.

Silver doesn't even raise his head at the suggestion. Just sighs a heavy breath high in his chest so as not to disturb his abdomen. "Perhaps another time." He's silent for a beat, then adds, "And perhaps when we have some actual lubricant to spare."

He has a point, thinks Flint. He's had to spit on his fingers several times in just a few minutes because his saliva keeps drying and causing his fingers to catch on Silver's rim. It's less than ideal.

Silver looks as though he's about to say something else, his head perking up, but a sharp noise from beyond the cabin reaches them. The bell is being rung; the captain's cue to reappear on deck. Silver drops his head back on the cot and closes his eyes.

"And here I was still hoping for your cock."

Flint huffs a breath and draws his fingers out slowly. He wipes them on Silver's discarded breeches, unfazed by the man's protests. He's still wearing his trousers, and thus needs only to redress his top half. He shrugs on his coat with a slight flinch from his healing shoulder, and makes to open the cabin door. Silver's voice makes him pause.

"Captain," he says. "Your rings."

"Right." He fits the jewellery scattered on his desk back on his hands with haste while Silver watches, still not making any move towards redressing himself.

"You'll get that last ring back soon," he promises, his voice lazy and unhurried.

"I'm not putting that thing on my hand again."

Silver huffs as though indignant. "Please, it'll be like a little piece of me with you at all times," he argues.

"Tell you what, Mr. Silver," says Flint, opening the door and allowing for the howl of the wind and the voices of the men to reach them. "That's the first decent point you've made all evening."

"What?"

"You _are_ a shit," he deadpans, and with that, leaves the cabin door to swing shut from the swell of the waves.

-:-:-

Billy leans into Flint's cabin from the doorway. "We make landfall in approximately two hours, captain."

"Thank you, Billy." Flint is poring over his maps, mentally plotting the most effective approach on the beach where the Urca remains wrecked. Sleep did not come easy to him during the night, but now, with the late morning sun just high enough that it no longer shines directly into his cabin, he's beginning to feel his exhaustion crawl behind his sternum, weighing down on his lungs.

He's already half asleep on his desk when the door opens again without warning. He startles, knocking his knee into the table. He swears and looks up to see Silver in the doorway, apologetic. Though Flint barely thinks it's remorse for waking him.

He's about to ask what the cook needs, to give him the list of provisions in advance, but Silver is ahead of him.

"Captain, I've good news and bad news."

"Oh god."

Silver, as always, isn't fazed in the least by Flint's instantaneous dissent. "The good news being, I no longer have your ring."

Flint leans back heavily in his chair. "And the bad news?"

A slight hesitation crosses Silver's expression. "I just returned from the quarter gallery," he admits. "So again, I no longer have your ring."

Flint is too tired to be angry today. He grunts, slumps over his desk, and dismisses Silver with a hand. As if God himself is looking down upon the sorry scene, Silver leaves without speaking another word. Good riddance to that piece of metal, thinks Flint to himself, and even he can't be sure whether he's referring to the man or the ring.

**Author's Note:**

> The [quarter gallery](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quarter_gallery) is a warship's latrine.


End file.
